


Four Ways John Winchester Never Touched Dean (And One Way Dean Never Touched John)

by derryderrydown



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-17
Updated: 2009-11-17
Packaged: 2017-10-03 04:12:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14065
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/derryderrydown/pseuds/derryderrydown
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Does exactly what it says on the tin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Four Ways John Winchester Never Touched Dean (And One Way Dean Never Touched John)

Dean was seventeen when he realised Dad was watching him get out of the shower. "Jesus!" he yelped, and snatched a towel from the rack. A thick, warm towel because they had a home at the moment and weren't stuck with the motel crap. "Give a guy some warning you're _there_."

Dad leaned over and rested his hand on Dean's chest and Dean stifled the urge to jerk away. Took a deep breath when Dad slid his hand down to Dean's belly. Dad's hands were rough, callouses catching against Dean's skin and Dean didn't have a clue whether he should scream or moan.

And then Dad was moving his hand back up, over Dean's shoulders and down his arms, until he was gripping Dean's bicep. "Getting strong, son," Dad said and that was when things started to make sense again. Just a bit of sense, but enough for Dean to manage to grin and flex his biceps.

"I work hard enough."

"You can _never_ work hard enough."

And, with one sentence, Dean was back to feeling like a useless kid.

Dad patted him on the shoulder. "Keep an eye on Sammy. I'm going out."

And that was that.

* * *

The women howled and shrieked and, in the flare of their torches, Dean could see that some of them were naked. Even better, it was mostly the young, pretty ones who were naked.

Young, pretty, naked and wielding scythes, faces twisted with hatred. Dean crept back into the bushes and swore under his breath. Why were naked chicks so often evil?

"Matka Ziema," Dad said.

"Gesundheit."

"It's a Russian ritual."

Dean was more concerned with the immediate danger of sharp blades. "Do they know what they're doing with the scythes?"

"If they see us, they'll know exactly what to do." Dad was peering through the leaves. "Men aren't allowed to see this."

"So, they'll, what, gouge our eyes out?"

A breath of laughter. "If we're lucky."

"If we're unlucky?"

"They'll kill us."

Dean blinked and risked another look. "That's Sandy. She's a waitress at the diner. She gave me her damn phone number - she's not going to kill me."

Dad shrugged. "She might."

Sandy had come five times. If she was going to turn round and kill Dean, that was just _ungrateful_. "Shit."

They were getting closer now, following the outskirts of the town. The three older naked women, white shawls over their heads, were - ploughing?

"They're letting the spirits of the Earth out," Dad whispered.

Which made about as much sense as anything.

"Not a sound," Dad said and dropped flat to the ground.

Dean copied him.

The cacophany of wailing and screaming was deafening. It sounded as if every woman in town was part of the parade. And considering the number of hot chicks in this town, Dean really wished he could watch them dancing round in the buff.

But Dad's hand was on his arm, so Dean buried his head in his sleeve and did his best to be invisible.

Only it wasn't good enough because the noise stopped, fading away as if silence were contagious. And then the bushes were parted and Dean looked up.

Sandy. Her dark blonde hair fell loose over her shoulders but didn't cover a thing. For once, Dean wasn't looking. He was more concerned with the scythe hovering over him and Dad.

"Look," Dad started but the scythe dropped lower and Dad shut up.

Sandy took a deep breath. "You have witnessed the sacred ritual to Matka Ziema. The Mother is displeased."

"Sandy, c'mon," Dean said, and wished he was pleading from a more dignified position than flat on his belly at her feet.

"The Mother is displeased," Sandy repeated. "You must be purged."

It didn't sound good.

"Your blood will placate the Mother."

It _really_ didn't sound good.

Sandy's face softened for a moment. "Goodbye, Dean."

The scythe lifted and time shifted to flashes.

The scythe starting to drop.

Dad moving.

Dean's face shoved into the dirt as Dad kept moving.

Dad's weight on top of him, shielding him.

The scythe still dropping, aiming now at Dad.

The thud of the scythe hitting.

And the laughter.

And then, Dad moving. Dad standing up.

Dad _alive?_

Time shifted back to normal.

"What the _hell?_" Dad demanded and, for a moment, Dean had trouble looking away from the scythe blade buried in the dirt next to him.

Sandy was giggling. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have frightened you like that but-" She burst into giggles again and an older woman pushed her to one side.

It was Mrs Karpov, who ran the convenience store. Dean had really, really never wanted to see her naked. "Don't worry," she said with a grandmotherly smile. "We don't need a _lot_ of blood."

Dean glanced between Sandy, Dad and Mrs Karpov. "You _do_ need blood?"

"Just a couple of drops," Mrs Karpov said. "As a symbol."

"The whole thing," Dad said slowly. "It's not the real ritual."

"Oh, dear, no," Mrs Karpov said. "It's just symbolic. More of a girl's night out, really. The real thing would be far too much trouble." She lifted an eyebrow at Sandy. "I'm not sure where we'd find nine maidens, for a start."

Sandy shifted her feet and risked a grin at Dean.

Mrs Karpov patted Dad's ass. "Now, let's have that blood."

With a deep sigh, Dad drew his hunting knife.

* * *

Dean was drunk. Which was pretty stupid considering he and Dad had wound up in this crappy little town on the trail of something that had it in for co-eds. Something that they hadn't even _identified_, never mind killed.

But the chick with her arm wrapped round his waist had been pretty damn persuasive about getting him a couple more beers. And then she'd been pretty damn persuasive about coming back to the motel.

"I'm sharing a room with my dad," Dean pointed out as they staggered across the parking lot.

Her eyes were bright with mischief as she glanced up at him. "If he looks anything like you, he can join in."

Dean lurched to a halt. "And now I feel sick."

But then she was kissing him and she tasted of cigarette smoke and cheap beer and he'd been on the road long enough for that taste to mean _sex_. Specially with her writhing up against him.

"Jesus," he said, pushing her back. "Keep on like that and we won't make it to the damn room."

They did make it to the room, with the chick - shit, what _was_ her name? - leading the way. And it wasn't until they were inside that Dean remembered why this was a really, really bad idea. Dad may look asleep but there wasn't a chance in hell that he actually was.

But then the chick slid her hand round Dean's neck and up the back of his head until her fingers were wrapped in his hair. And they were kissing again and Dad could just fuck off.

He didn't even care about the noise they made as the chick pushed him backwards on to the empty bed, mattress sagging beneath them. Dean didn't know how she'd gotten his shirt off but it was gone and she was straddling his hips, staring down at him with a weird, offputting intensity.

No, not weird. Hot. Fucking _sexy_. Fucking _amazing_.

Her fingernails, longer than he remembered, were scraping down his chest, leaving trills of pain that made him moan and push against her. It hadn't felt this good since- It had _never_ felt this good.

His head was filled with buzzing and all he could see was _her_, practically glowing as she ground against him.

And then her head whipped back and she screeched and her claws dug deep, too deep, into his chest, and behind her screams, he heard his father's voice.

Low and deep and implacable. "...benedectis deus gloria patri."

A final scream, a torrent of-

Oh, Jesus, she was _hurling_ all over him, thick and black and that wasn't vomit, that was, that was-

Fuck. A demon. A fucking _demon_.

And now there was a girl huddled at the end of his bed, staring at Dad and him like _they_ were the freaks. Dean closed his eyes and groaned.

*

Later, when the girl had gone, her eyes still wide and disbelieving, Dean sat on the edge of Dad's bed. "I don't get it. Why didn't you salt the door? She should never have gotten in."

"That was the plan."

It took a moment to sink in. "I was _bait?_"

Dad just raised an eyebrow.

"But - it's been going after co-eds. Why would it go for me?"

Dad stretched out and yawned. "Think about how the girls died. It'll come to you. Now go to sleep."

Dean looked over at his own bed. Thought about the demon and the black stuff and shuddered. "I'm not sleeping in that bed."

Dad sighed and lifted his own sheet. "Shut up."

Dean lay awake while Dad slept next to him. The only thing that had been particularly unusual about the bodies was that the killer had targeted their faces.

And they'd all been particularly pretty girls.

Shit. The demon bitch had been _jealous_. What kind of fucking crap demon got its panties knotted because it didn't score?

"_Fuck!_" Dean said.

He felt Dad shift next to him, instantly awake. "Figured it out?"

"Fuck," Dean said again.

Dad let out a breath of laughter. "Plan wouldn't have worked if you weren't so damn pretty."

"You could've _told_ me about the plan."

"Didn't want you to tip it off," Dad said without a hint of apology. But he leaned over and dropped a kiss on Dean's forehead. "Now, sleep. We'll have to be out of here early before that girl slaps us both with rape and abduction charges."

* * *

Dean is ripped and bleeding and coated in mud and dust and shit. But the cu sith is gone and he isn't seriously hurt, so it's a pretty good night.

"You have first shower," Dad says, and Dean doesn't object. Dad was smart enough to avoid going hand-to-fang with the green spook dog, so Dad isn't coated with the random crap Dean was rolling around in.

The shower's typical of the cheap motels they stick to, but even a thin trickle of barely warm water feels good right now. It takes three of the crappy little bars of soap before he feels clean enough to get out of the shower.

He groans when he sees the medical kit laid out on Dad's bed. "They're just a few cuts."

Dad doesn't say anything, just gestures to Dean's bed, and Dean obeys. He's had the lecture before, how leaving wounds untreated just creates possible weaknesses, and Dad knows there's no point in giving it again.

Dean drops his towel and settles himself stomach-down on his bed, propped on his elbows. "You really need to stop fussing." And he means it. Because, yeah, he gets that it's a good idea to clean wounds. It's just that this thing is always so damn awkward, and it's just getting worse as Dean gets older.

Dad's hands aren't gentle. They never are and it doesn't alter a thing.

The antiseptic stings but it isn't that making Dean take deep breaths.

His back isn't badly hurt, just scrapes from rolling over rocks. It's not as though he's dumb enough to turn his back on a cu sith. So it's not long enough until Dad lifts his hands.

"Turn over."

The first time it happened, Dean had been eighteen and Dad had given him an almost sympathetic grin and said, "Adrenline, huh?" That was five years ago and the thin excuse had worn away to nothing long ago.

Dean lies on his back with his eyes shut and tries to ignore Dad's hands on his chest, cleaning out the deep scratches. He wishes it hurt more but Dad's too competent. Always is, which is half the damn problem.

It's easier with Dad working on his forearm, practically pouring antiseptic into the bite before taping a dressing over the top. "Keep an eye on that one," Dad says, and his voice is rough and low.

"Will do," Dean says, and knows his own voice sounds the same.

"No stupid heroics. Don't want you to end up losing the whole arm."

"Okay, Dad." Dean starts to sit up but Dad's hand is on his shoulder.

"Your hip."

It's the worst of the lot, Dean knows. The cu sith had managed a nip before the borrowed boarhounds had taken it down but a nip from something the size of a year-old cow was a pretty hefty bite. A few inches to the side and down and Dean would be singing soprano. Which is why he doesn't want Dad working on it. "I can get it."

Dad just pushes him back down without a word. Anybody else and Dean would fight. But this is Dad and Dad's fingers are soft on his hip and it's all Dean can do to keep breathing. Even the antiseptic fades to nothing next to the warmth of Dad's touch.

And then Dad's hand moves. Round his cock.

And Dean _can't_ keep his eyes shut; has to see what the hell Dad's thinking.

But Dad won't look at him. Won't look at anything but the sheets on Dean's bed.

"Dad." It's gasped out, barely a word.

Dad's expression doesn't change but his hand's merciless. And he's still holding a dressing in his other hand, which might make this better or worse.

He's got the hunting look. Blocking out everything that's unimportant. Right now, the only important thing is Dean.

And. Shit. Is this what he'd wanted?

Dad's too fucking _competent_ and Dean can't _think_. Doesn't really want to think. Just wants to feel. To lift his hips and spread his legs and push into Dad's hand and, oh, hell, now Dad's dropped the dressing somewhere and his other hand's on Dean's _balls_ and it's too fucking _good_ and-

"Shit!" he forces out through gritted teeth and he can't keep his eyes open because he's coming, feeling it surge right fucking _through_ him, electrocuting his braincells and blowing his mind and almost making him forget that it's his father's hand wrapped round his cock.

When he finally looks up, Dad's staring at nothing, frowning.

"Dad?"

There's no response.

"Dad."

Dad blinks and looks at Dean. No, looks past Dean. "I'm going to have a shower."

It's nearly an hour until Dad gets out of the shower.

* * *

In the few minutes before Sam came in from the car, Dean and Dad were alone. And Dean kissed him.

A second later, Dean was pinned to the wall and Dad wasn't kissing him, Dad was _devouring_ him. Dad's hard body pressed against his and he could taste the blood from Dad's lip.

His head was held still but he wouldn't want to move even if he could. He didn't know how long he'd wanted this and now Dad-

He felt sick.

It wasn't Dad.


End file.
